


Turn of Phrase

by keptin



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dysphoria, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trans Male Character, brief sex mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptin/pseuds/keptin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The dancing was good, but all in all, Lavellan had a shit time at Halamshiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn of Phrase

**Author's Note:**

> tw for mentions of misgendering, and brief mention of sex.
> 
> also this is the first fic i've written for the dragon age fandom, and the first fic i've written in more than a year i think???

Sunlight filtered through beams and cast long spans of light across the bed. His face warmed by the sun, Cullen woke slowly, yawned, and stretched. His dreams had been peaceful; that was slowly becoming the norm rather than an unusual occurrence, and he suspected it had something to do with the elf beside him.

Except Lahalaan wasn’t beside him, tucked under his arm like a ream of vellum as he often preferred to sleep. Cullen sat up, wondering what was the matter—if there was a disturbance, if Lahalaan had been needed, if, Maker forbid, they were under attack—no, if any of that were the case, Cullen would have been awakened as well, since he would be needed to advise or to ready his troops. His arms relaxed where they had been reaching for his sword, now in the corner rather than at his bedside, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Lahalaan was on the lower level of Cullen’s quarters, wearing just his pants as he looked over a report from the last mission in the Western Approach. Being Dalish, he had spent years and years traveling, but he hated the beating sun and the sand that seemed to permeate everything from shoes to food. Suffice it to say, he had been glad when they had gotten back to Skyhold where he could take a good, long bath.

“You always do write the most thorough reports,” he said without even turning around to see that Cullen had put on a pair of trousers and was climbing down the ladder. He could hear the lopsided smile in the elf’s voice. “You left out the part where we fucked in Griffon Wing, though.”

Despite himself, Cullen blushed, coming up behind his lover to wrap his arms around his waist. “You woke early,” he remarked; Lahalaan had never been one for early mornings. “Any reason in particular?”

“Why, Commander,” Lahalaan drawled, turning in Cullen’s arms and raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t you quite direct this morning? You know that’s no way to treat a lady.” Ah. So that’s what happened. Cullen hummed, nodded, and saw the dull shine where there should have been a mischievous glint in Lahalaan’s eyes. He pressed a kiss to the elf’s forehead, then one to each cheek, resting their foreheads together.

“Do you want to talk about this?” he asked. A strategy he had learned from Josephine: a person, offered kindness and understanding, will cooperate much more and much more readily than one coerced or nagged. Josephine had been the first Lahalaan had gone to, when he had been called “Lady Inquisitor” one too many times. Ten too many times. A hundred too many times.

Lahalaan met Cullen’s eyes just long enough to see this wasn’t just going to slide, not when there was something that could be done. “The Winter Palace,” he said at last, his voice uncharacteristically soft, none of the familiar dagger’s edge to it. “They all called me Mistress Lavellan and Lady Herald and… you know the rest.” Cullen did—he was guilty of having called him some of those things that hurt so much, but he’d been informed, and he had learned. “I couldn’t correct them, because there was so much else to do, and then Celene and Briala gave their speech.”

That the time wasn’t right went unsaid; Lahalaan was a mercenary at heart, and he knew what words to say and when to say them. But his silver tongue worked against him at times like this, in the interest of keeping itself so silver. Cullen had no such skill, none at all. His hold on Lahalaan’s waist tightened in sympathy.

“We’ll issue a formal proclamation,” he told the elf, his voice low with sincerity. “Tell them how you are to be addressed. After all that the Inquisition has done, with you as its leader, no one will question it.”

“Not to my face, they won’t,” Lahalaan argued wryly, and it broke Cullen’s heart how all the fight had gone out of it. He sounded impossibly old. “Unless they’re brave, or on someone’s payroll. Then it’ll be a political move. Lady Herald says she’s the Herald of Andraste, but also says she’s a man; what else is she lying about?”

He worked his way out of Cullen’s arms, making his way towards the ladder either to retrieve his clothes or go back to sleep. Cullen let him go, but after a few seconds, he stepped forward, catching him by an arm.

“They won’t,” he said, and Lahalaan looked up at him like he was wearing a nug on his head. “I… what I mean to say is, they might, but we’ll correct them. A decree may set things right for most of Thedas, and even though some won’t pay it any heed, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be referred to correctly when you’re buying armor or meeting with Orlesian dignitaries.”

His hand slipped down Lahalaan’s arm, knitting their fingers together and giving his hand a soft squeeze. “If some don’t listen, we’ll say it again, for as long as it takes. You’ve slain dragons, been into the Fade itself… if there’s anyone who can get people to listen, it’s you.”

Lahalaan looked down, then quickly to the side, as if he’d just seen himself, and Cullen’s expression softened as he pulled the smaller man into his arms. “You’ve done so much for all of us,” he breathed. “For all of Thedas. The least they can do is recognize their Inquisitor for who he is.”

Lahalaan’s hair was long enough to braid now, and Cullen stroked it as the elf closed his eyes and rested his head on Cullen’s chest. When they had first met, all the way back when Lahalaan had first fallen out of the Breach and was being held prisoner, his hair had been short, skimming just a bit longer than the line of his jaw. Now it reached the middle of his shoulderblades, long enough so he had taken to tying it back when he wasn’t in Skyhold. And when someone stroked his hair—Cullen, in the evenings when they were both settling to bed, or Josephine, who liked to try out intricate patterns of braids—he practically purred. Lahalaan sighed slowly, looking up at Cullen so his chin dug into the Commander’s chest.

“Back to bed,” he said simply. “Your Lord Herald demands it.”


End file.
